


The Fields of Athenry

by MJ (mjr91)



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Enterprise, IRA - Freeform, Irish Republican Army, M/M, NX-01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjr91/pseuds/MJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Malcolm Reed disappears after Enterprise returns to Earth, Jonathan Archer will do anything to find him, and in the process discovers that Malcolm truly may not be who Jonathan thought he was at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fields of Athenry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kayjayuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayjayuu/gifts).



> Author's Notes: "Fields of Athenry" is by Pete St. John. CI5 is by Brian Clemens, and is the British government agency invented for his show "The Professionals". Trip's knowing "I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen" is of course a TOS in-joke.
> 
> Originally published in the zine "Getting From There to Here" by Agent With Style.

Jonathan Archer dropped his bags on the floor of his living room, smiling as his companion's bags also settled to the carpet, as Porthos began sniffing at familiar but long-forgotten territory. He'd been able to keep his apartment in the housing at the Starfleet Headquarters compound while he'd been gone, thanks to a few friends and a few strings. Not having to worry about housing when he returned had meant a great deal to him, but never more so than now - not only now that he was back, but now that the unit qualified as a home and not just a place to sleep at night. Knowing that someone was there waiting for you when you were through with work made a difference in the classification; he'd discovered that on Enterprise. Having Porthos with him had been something, a great deal in fact, but falling in love had truly changed everything. 

Malcolm Reed looked around the apartment while absently bending down to scratch Porthos. "Aha. The upper echelons *do* get better housing than the peons."

Archer grinned. "You'd have qualified for some pretty decent base housing yourself now, *Commander* Reed. And I hope you enjoy that promotion every bit as much as I do. Nobody deserves it more. I'm surprised the Admiral made those promotion announcements on shipboard before we reached Jupiter Station, but you and Trip ought to be a couple of happy campers."

Reed stared at his lover in disbelief. "And you're not, *Admiral* Archer?" 

His lover shook his head. "I still don't believe it. Anyway, they haven't pinned me yet, so I don't have to worry *quite* yet about the dubious honor of being the youngest admiral in Starfleet. *Or* about having to demand they keep me on shipboard duty for a few more years before they retire me to a desk." He shrugged. "I'm not ready to become a desk jockey, Malcolm. I want at least one more tour on Enterprise. Maybe not five years, but I'm not ready to hang it up yet. I don't mind taking an extended leave and then doing a short debriefing hitch back here, but I didn't take this job to hang around San Francisco and Jupiter Station the rest of my life." He looked at the younger man closely. "Do you think you can live with that?

The newly minted commander smirked. "It'll be difficult. I'll allow it on one condition."

"What's that?"

"You're not going anywhere without me, Yank." 

"Deal." Archer slid an arm around Reed as Porthos sniffed the carpet around their feet. "Have I told you I love you lately?"

"Frequently." Reed leaned up slightly, took Archer's mouth possessively. "I don't think I'll have an opportunity to forget any time soon."

Archer tugged Reed towards the window, looking out at the San Francisco skyline. "Maybe this is as good a time as any to ask. While we're down here, how do you feel about getting married?"

Reed froze. Archer could feel the stiffness through Reed's clothing. He didn't seem ready to flee, but the idea had obviously bothered him. "Jon, you know I love you. We've been living together on shipboard the past year and a half; I'm moving in with you down here. I'm not going anywhere - you know that. Isn't that enough?"

Archer sighed. "It's more than enough, but I'd like to make it legal. Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but it means something to me."

His lover turned and slid his own arms around Archer. "I understand, love. But... I can't ask you to understand; could you just accept that I'm not comfortable with that, not just yet?" He kissed Archer again. "I'm yours for life anyway. If you want us to put each other down as the benefits recipients or survivors with Starfleet, that's fine. But... married? Not yet, Jon. I... I just can't."

He didn't understand, but he knew there were things about Malcolm Reed that simply had to be accepted, had to be taken on faith. Apparently this was one of them, and, truth to tell, he really could have guessed. He'd have to remind himself that his lover wasn't rejecting him - anything but, in fact, judging by the way Reed's hands were caressing him through his uniform. Still, he'd have felt better, for some obscure reason - maybe he was a far worse romantic than he thought he was - being secure in the possessive knowledge that Commander Malcolm Reed was really, quite legally, all his and with a ring on his finger to prove it. Still, he'd take Reed any way he could have him - a thought it was best not to articulate, or Reed would no doubt enumerate, quite merrily, just all the ways in which Archer really *had* had him. The nights they'd spent making love in zero-G in Archer's cabin were still vivid to both of them. "All right. I won't ask you again, Malcolm. Not for at least a week." He planted a kiss in Reed's hair.

Malcolm looked across the room at a chronometer. "It's getting late, love. I hate to say it, but - this being my first night back and all - there's something I need to go do. You can come if you want to, but I don't know what you'll think."

"What is it?"

"There's a small obligation I have to take care of. It's a bit of a ritual among some of us - well, a particular crew of us in the fleet. We do it just before we ship out and then when we get back. Care to come? I promise there's at least one drink in it for you."

Archer smiled. "I could use a drink, come to think of it."

"I warn you," Reed said. "You'll be forced to discover the absolutely shocking way I used to spend my free time back before I shipped out. I'm afraid you might be a bit alarmed."

"How bad could it be?" Archer bent down to scratch Porthos behind the ears. "I'm game."

"Well, don't say I never warned you, love."

* * *

Reed brought Archer around to a side street a few blocks from the base. An orange, white, and green flag hung outside a bar whose window sign proclaimed it O'Donoghue's Pub and Restaurant. The parade of people streaming in proclaimed it a Starfleet hangout, apparently a gathering place for the British and Irish officers and enlistees stationed in San Francisco. Archer was surprised that he'd never heard of it; it was evidently very popular with a large number of Starfleet crew.

They entered into a heavily paneled, not-quite-dark, beer-soaked room, packed nearly to capacity with off-duty Starfleet personnel and some non-Starfleet friends and dates. A few personnel, some still in uniform, were gathered near a makeshift stage with musical instruments - guitars, pennywhistles, a button accordion, a hand drum. "Who've we got tonight?" a tall lieutenant commander with a booming voice queried the others at the stage. "Everyone ready to play? Because this crowd's ready to make noise and have the police shut us down, and it's up to us to see they're not disappointed."

"Shaddup, O'Farrell," someone snorted. "Let 'em play."

"Very well," Lieutenant Commander O'Farrell, apparently a self-appointed emcee, agreed. "Let's warm up, eh?" He looked at the first few rows of tables. "Let's all warm up with a rousing, semi-drunken chorus of our absolutely unofficial and idiotic theme song, shall we?"

There were nods of assent, a few murmured or shouted "Yeahs" and "damn time" comments, and one or two coughs as the band made tuning noises. Then the noise broke out.

"If you're Irish, come into the parlor, there's a welcome there for you;  
If your name is Timothy or Pat, so long as you come from Ireland,  
There's a welcome on the mat..."

Archer looked about. People were singing, beer was flowing, and Reed, to Archer's amazement, was plainly wallowing in his element. The verse came to an end, and Reed pulled Archer closer to the front and over to an unoccupied corner table, flagging a waitress for two Guinness.

"And I hear we have Tim Hagen shipping out on the Missouri tomorrow," O'Farrell proclaimed. "So what's that mean?"

"The next beer's on Hagen!" several voices yelled from different places in the room.

"Exactly. Hagen, lad, you owe us all a round for your trouble. And congratulations, it's your first deployment, may you have many more. And for that, lad, you get the unofficial O'Donoghue's sendoff. Let's get loud, everyone!"

Two of the guitar players began strumming enthusiastically.

"Fare thee well, my lovely Dinah, a thousand times adieu.  
We are bound away from the holy ground and the girls we love so true.  
We'll sail the salt seas over and we'll return once more,  
And still I live in hope to see the holy ground once more.  
Fine girl you are!  
And still I live in hope to see the holy ground once more."

This song actually involved shouting, and Reed, along with the rest of the crowd, was doing just that. He sang along, knew all the words - this, apparently, was part of the ritual Reed had mentioned, a shipping-out hazing. There must also be one for coming back into port. Archer was slightly surprised. He'd never seen Reed really sing before. He was no professional, but he wasn't bad; he could carry a tune well enough. Reed had never been this relaxed on shipboard; this, apparently, was his idea of an ideal environment that didn't involve a weapons station or repair bench.

O'Farrell looked in their direction. "I think I just heard a voice we haven't had in here in a few years, boys. Show yer face, you bloody Limey." He was smiling despite the words.

"What?" Reed called. "And me with my own mother's mother from Killarney? There's not a drop of native Irish in *you* for four generations at least, O'Farrell!" Reed was smiling as well; this was obviously a long-standing joke.

"There's a lot of Irish in me," O'Farrell announced. "Had three shots of Bushmills before I came in, didn't I? Folks, I heard earlier today Enterprise's crew was back in town, and that means Malcolm Reed's right here where he belongs, and we know what *that* means..."

"Yeah," someone in front called. "Another round of free beer!"

"Pay up, Reed!" someone else called. "I'm ready for my next round!"

"I don't think so." The voice boomed from behind the bar, where a stocky, black-haired man was washing glasses. "His round's on the house. Five years out there, shooting it out with those Klingon arses? Your money's no good here, Reed. I'll send the round out on me. And your beer's free the rest of the evening - you and your friend there."

"Thanks, Paddy," Reed called. Several people clapped.

"Hey, who'd you bring?" another voice called. Archer turned around, facing the crowd, ready to say hello. He was recognized first. "Admiral Archer? Sir?"

"I'm off duty. I'm not 'sir.' Please."

"Say, Admiral," O'Farrell asked, "are you Irish?"

"Of course he is!" Paddy called from behind the bar.

"How d'you figure that?" asked the emcee.

"Easy. Could anyone but an Irishman possibly captain a ship as fine as Enterprise, I ask you? Of course not. And who captained it but the admiral here? So he can't be anything *but* Irish. It wouldn't be proper, would it? Stands to reason, O'Farrell, or else you're too sober to think straight yet."

"Anything you say, Paddy. So, Admiral, what brings you down to our humble abode?"

Archer and Reed looked at each other and shrugged; Archer decided to go for broke. After all, it was no particular secret. He slid an arm around Reed and kissed him. The response was immediate. And no more, no less, than might be expected from that crowd - catcalls.

"Whoo hoo!"

"Sleeping your way up, Reed?"

"So *that's* what kept you away from us for five years, eh?"

Reed accepted the heckling with good grace. "Find your own man, Murphy," he called across the room, to a peal of wolf whistles in Murphy's direction.

"However, he's back, like it or not," O'Farrell announced. "So come on, everyone, it's drinking time." The band, if that was what it was, picked up as one of the pennywhistlers began singing.

"I've been a wild rover for many a year.  
And I spent all my money on whiskey and beer.  
But now I'm returning with gold in great store  
And I never will play the wild rover no more.  
And it's no, nay, never, no nay never no more,  
Will I play the wild rover, no never no more."

Everyone was singing, as with the sendoff of Hagen; apparently this was the ritual Reed had mentioned. Reed raised his glass to O'Farrell. "I see nothing's changed while I've been gone - even your underwear's the same, I can bet."

"And you'd be the one to find out," O'Farrell snapped back, grinning. "Malcolm, just for you - no one's sung 'Rose of Clare' since you shipped out. It's your song, man - are you going to sit there, or are you going to sing it before I have your miserable *part* Limey arse tossed out?"

"I don't suppose I'll get any peace until I do," Reed retorted. He stood, still holding the Guinness. "Tommy, I could use some guitar here." One of the musicians nodded. Reed composed himself.

"Oh my lovely rose of Clare, you're the sweetest girl I know;  
You're the queen of all the roses, like the pretty flowers that grow.  
You are the sunshine of my life, so beautiful and fair,  
And I will always love you, my lovely rose of Clare."

He finished the chorus and went into a short verse, most of the room picking up with him when he returned to the chorus. Reed sat down then, during the applause, and Archer could see that his face was drawn, that he had clearly been discomfited by the song. There was only one reason for that, Archer thought. "It's a beautiful song, Malcolm. Singing about someone you knew?"

Reed shrugged and stared at his drink. "'But that was in another country...'" he trailed. Archer's mind supplied the rest of the quote. Better, obviously, to let the memory drop than to pursue it. He didn't need to know that badly about Reed's former lovers, male or female.

"I wanted you to know - I'm having a great time, Malcolm. I like this place."

"It's always been like this," Reed told him. "It's a bit of a revolving party. O'Farrell keeps it together a bit, always has, but it's been like this ever since everyone found the place. It's a great time, except when the wrong songs come up."

"Like that one?" Archer ventured.

"No. The political ones. Like - oh, God help me. *This* one."

Archer listened as Reed sank his head into a hand.

"Will ye stand in the band like a true Irish man,  
And go and fight the forces of the crown?  
Will ye march with O'Neill to an Irish battlefield?  
For tonight we go to free old Wexford town!"

Most of the crowd was drinking and bouncing cheerfully to the music; a few around the room, Reed among them, were trying to ignore the song. It occurred to Archer that everyone staring at the ceiling just then was English; the Irish crowd was perfectly happy with it. "I think I see the problem."

Reed nodded. "Rather a lot of would-be IRA sympathizers in the Irish lot. We've had a few bad fights in here from time to time. The mixed politics are a bit of a problem."

"But you all keep coming back."

"It's like it was when I was working things out with you when we got together. Just because you clash over some very important issues doesn't mean there's no point to the whole thing." Reed drained his beer. "A few rough songs a night is no reason to break up this charmingly dysfunctional little family over a political dispute back home." Archer looked around the room again and nodded, following Reed's thinking precisely.

* * *

Malcolm Reed stared at a monitor in the apartment he shared with Archer, numbly reading the message blinking on it. Shaking his head, he bent down to scratch Porthos, then reached for the keyboard. The response he typed was simple and direct. 

"As far as I'm concerned, Mikey Ryan's a dead man. The bloody bastard should be blown up with his own ordnance, and if his body splatters in so many pieces that nothing can be found to bury, don't think I won't celebrate."

* * *

Jonathan Archer looked over at his lover, who was cursing under his breath at some messages he was reading. "Everything all right?"

"Fine. Just some garbage to deal with here. A problem with an old friend."

"Anything I can do?"

"I doubt if there's anything anyone can do." 

Reed looked at the screen again and read the message silently. "Understand how you feel but we're welcoming Mikey Ryan home. There's a piece of work back here requiring his presence." He moved the message into a file and shut down the screen. Then he walked across the room to Archer, who was stretched out on the couch reading a report.

Archer patted the couch, motioning for Reed to join him, and tossed the report on the table. "Care to talk about it?"

"Not really." Reed curled against Archer as Porthos, seeing the action clustering at the couch, padded over to join them, arranging himself on the floor within arm's reach of both men. Reed and Archer both reached down to scratch the beagle's ears. "I'd rather just forget all about it."

Archer nuzzled Reed's neck, running a hand along his lover's side. "I'd be happy to help..." he murmured into Reed's hair.

Reed leaned back into the embrace. "I might just take you up on that, love."

The nuzzling continued. "I'm not trying to push you, Malcolm, but have you thought any more about... you know..."

Reed stiffened for a moment, then let go again. "Jon, please. I love you, you know that. Please just let it slide." He leaned back further, molding himself against Archer's body. "Now, you were going to help me forget something, I think..." 

"I was, wasn't I?" Jonathan Archer was a man of his word.

* * *

"Malcolm?" Archer looked around the living room of the apartment as he entered. He'd thought that Reed would be waiting for him; they had made dinner reservations at a place on the Wharf, but Archer's meeting had run late. Maybe he had gone ahead to the restaurant? But that wasn't like Reed. Nonetheless he called the restaurant. Reed wasn't there, either. Perhaps he was in transit.

Half an hour later, Reed wasn't home, wasn't at the restaurant.

Two hours later, there was still no sign of Malcolm Reed. Archer took a chance and called O'Donoghue's. Paddy hadn't seen Malcolm, but he promised to have him call if he showed up that evening. Perhaps the admiral wanted to stop by and have a drink on the house while he waited? Archer thanked Paddy, but declined with a promise to stop in again shortly.

Near bedtime, anxious, Archer buzzed Captain Trip Tucker's apartment. Trip was in, though he wasn't alone. "Trip? It's Jon. Look, I hate to bother you," Archer said, since the look on Trip's date's face was evident on screen, as was Trip's state of undress, "but Malcolm's just nowhere around. We were supposed to go out to dinner, but he wasn't here, he didn't head over to the restaurant, and his just being nowhere without a message just isn't like him. You haven't heard from him, have you?"

Trip shook his head. "A couple of hours I could see, but all evening? And you checked over at O'Donoghue's?" Reed and Archer had taken Tucker there the week before. Tucker had astounded the crowd by actually knowing "I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen," a feat that had kept him in beer for the evening. Archer nodded at Trip. "No, that's not much like Malcolm." He turned to the woman behind him. "Look, Connie, I'm gonna have to leave. My buddy's got a problem. How 'bout I give you a call tomorrow?"

"Trip, I hate to wreck your date."

"Nah, glad to do it. I'll be over in fifteen minutes or so." Trip switched off from his end. Archer started a pot of coffee and collapsed on the couch.

Trip arrived shortly thereafter, passing up coffee for a beer. "An accident? You'd 'a heard something. No point doing the neurotic hospital bit. Anything on base we'd know about; hospitals we'd know about. If he'd run out with Travis or Hoshi, he'd have let you know. It's only been a few hours, but you're right that this isn't like Malcolm." He took a pull at the longneck in his hand. "You looked through the bedroom, Jon?"

"No - why?"

"Sounds crazy, but humor me - is any of his stuff missing?"

Archer shrugged and went into the bedroom. He returned to the living room a few minutes later, quietly, and then to the coffee pot. He poured a mug of coffee and sat down heavily as Trip watched him. Trip was silent for a moment. Then he asked, "How much of his stuff's gone, Jon?"

"One bag. A couple of pairs of pants, some shirts, his shaver. No uniform items that I can tell; I think all of that's here." Archer wrapped both hands around the coffee mug, as if they were chilled. "Not a lot of stuff, really, but it's gone."

Trip put the bottle down on the table, then crossed his arms, thinking. "Okay, so he left, but it doesn't sound like he's expecting to be gone very long. You think anything could have happened to his sister? Anyone else he knows been having any problems?"

Archer mused, his brow furrowed. "I haven't heard anything about his sister. Now, he and I have been having a bit of a problem."

"Huh?" Trip's eyebrows were up; he was openly astonished. "You been holding out on something, Jon? I thought you two were happy as pigs in shit. What's the story?"

"Well," Archer confessed, "I asked him if he wanted to get married now that we were back."

"That's a problem?" Trip stared. "Hell, you let Hoshi know about that? She's got some china patterns you two probably need to look at."

A sigh. "The problem," Archer continued, "is that Malcolm absolutely froze. He doesn't want to; he doesn't even want to talk about it. I brought it up again the other night and I thought he was going to flip out on me for just a second."

Trip let out a low whistle. "Shit. I figured you two'd be practically the first ones in line to get hitched once we got back. He never said anything to me about any kind of cold feet about you two... Hmm." He wrinkled his face for a moment. "Nothin' else at all?"

More thought. "Okay... the other night, Malcolm was reading his messages and said something about a problem with an old friend. He seemed a bit upset."

"Well, then," Trip said, making his way to Archer's terminal, "that gives us some other possibilities. Maybe he got called away today to help the guy out and he was so worked up he forgot to leave a message. You *did* check your own messages, didn't you?"

Archer nodded weakly. "Not for a couple of hours, though."

"So maybe he's sent something about what's going on. He mighta got there and once he found out what was up, he realized he needed to letcha know." The engineer began issuing commands on the keyboard. "Nah, your mail's empty." He paused. "What's Malcolm's password?"

"I have no clue."

Trip shrugged. "This'll take an extra minute, then." He continued programming. "Okay, now I've got it. Never met a password I couldn't get around." He caught Archer's look. "You kinda have to learn it when you work on engineering problems and have to get around systems to fix them." He looked over Reed's mail. "Shit."

"What?" Archer came over behind Tucker to look at the monitor.

"He's got a whole encrypted file here with a bunch of messages. Never saw an encryption like this one. This stuff's probably important, but you'd need a codebreaker to look at it."

Archer leaned against the desk. "And Starfleet's going to lend me one just to check my lover's mail?"

Trip shook his head. "Nah. Look, it's late. Get some sleep. I'll sack out on your couch, and... look, is Hoshi around?"

"Hoshi?"

Trip stood. "Sure. Encryption? Coding? Unless it's some really random key bein' used, what's a code but a substitute language? Besides. Hoshi worked encrypted transmissions as Communications Officer. She might have a clue about how either to break this thing or what kinda encryption filter we'd need to read it." He looked at Archer and saw the fatigue visible throughout Archer's body. "Go to bed, Jon. We can get her first thing in the morning."

* * *

Lieutenant Hoshi Sato sat at Archer's desk, her fingers flying over keys. "There are a couple of different encryptions here, that's the thing," she explained. "I don't think I can get the one without a corresponding program I can't identify. But this other one - it's not Starfleet, but it's a military-type encryption. It's a little old, actually. I can get all the messages in that encryption base." She began programming in earnest. "Okay, give me a minute here. I need to set up a filter." More programming, and a pause for thought. "There, that should have it." She sat back to watch her handiwork, as Trip and Archer peered over her shoulders curiously.

"Hmm," Trip considered. "'Mikey Ryan being recalled to duty. Expect his report Thursday next at latest. Expect preparations accordingly."

"There's a response from Malcolm," Hoshi commented. "'Thought Ryan dead and buried nine years ago. Please confirm previous message.'" She scanned the messages again. "This was sent last week. So 'Thursday next' would be... today, wouldn't it?"

"That's how Malcolm uses it, anyway," Archer replied. "So whoever sent this is probably also British."

"Or from somewhere over there," Trip said. "Mikey Ryan sounds like a pretty Irish kinda name to me."

Hoshi stopped both men. "Wait - catch this. 'Ryan arrival date firm. Expect Ryan present under any and all circumstances. Escort will be sent to ensure presence.' This *is* a military-style encryption. I wonder if Malcolm was being ordered to pick up whoever this Ryan is?"

"But we know it's not Starfleet," Trip told her. "Who else would Malcolm be taking orders from?"

Archer sighed. "Much as I love Malcolm, I hate to say there are a few things he's never told me. There's a few-year gap in his history between college and entering Starfleet. He might not be the first Starfleet officer who's still taking orders from a previous military command. I knew a couple of ships' captains who were still attached to the Air Force as well as Starfleet."

"But he'd have said something, surely," Hoshi protested.

"Not if he's working Intelligence," Trip said. "If he's still military intelligence or agency, he'd have to keep that under wraps. And it'd explain why he couldn't tell you what was going on last night."

Archer thought briefly. "Hoshi, print out the messages you were able to run through decryption. Let me get hold of someone over in Personnel."

* * *

The captain in charge of Personnel Records clucked her tongue thoughtfully. "Admiral Archer? There *is* an addendum to Commander Reed's record that was just dated yesterday morning at 1100." She looked at the monitor quietly, deliberating. " He's been placed on indefinite administrative leave. *With* pay, which is odd. There's nothing else in the record about it, and there's a red flag on it."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that all other information regarding the leave is not only classified, but isn't accessible to anyone except the originator of the authorization. It's eyes only, Sir." She shrugged apologetically as she scanned the screen.

"Can you tell me who authorized it?"

"I shouldn't. I really don't want to get into trouble."

"I won't bring your name into it. I promise to claim I hacked the records."

"Well, then... it was Admiral Forrest, Sir."

* * *

Forrest paced his office as Archer sat at a desk chair, agitated. "Look, Jon, I know this must be very distressing for you. But I can't give you any information about it. In fact, the request didn't come from me or from Commander Reed, or from anyone outside Starfleet. I was requested to approve it by someone else in the chain of command. I don't know what it's about; I'm just the errand boy here, and I don't like it much more than you do. I can only tell you that Commander Reed appears to have some friends in very unusual places, and they obviously have some kind of pull with certain other officers - Fleet Admiral O'Malley among them."

"Is that who asked you to approve this?"

"I'm not going to admit or deny anything, Jon. But I strongly advise you that Patrick O'Malley is not a man to take on. You'll get nowhere, and all you'll accomplish is losing your first star, because he *will* have your ass. Whatever you do, don't go there." Forrest looked at Archer's face. "If it's any consolation, Jon, your Commander Reed was in here when I approved that leave, and he wasn't any happier about it than you are. He told me he was afraid you wouldn't take it well. Look, Jon... he'll be back. I think I can promise you that much. I know this isn't easy for you, and the circumstances must be killing you, but Malcolm did tell me that if you came to me about this, I should ask you to bear with him. He - Jon, I don't doubt for a second that Malcolm Reed loves you more than anything else in his life. If you can try to hang on through this, Jon, I'm going to expect that wedding invitation down the road." Forrest dropped a hand to Archer's shoulder. "I wish I could do more for you, Jon, but I can't. All I can do is ask you to give him time to get through whatever's going on."

* * *

Trip swung his feet up onto Archer's couch, taking care not to spill the beer he was holding. "Sounds like you and Hoshi were right that this is military. I bet anything Malcolm's Naval Intelligence or something like that, and this is some kinda intelligence assignment - this Ryan must be some guy he's supposed to spy on or something. I've seen enough movies - spies aren't allowed to tell anyone where they're going or anything like that. He probably wasn't even allowed to tell you he was leaving."

Archer began fiddling with the controls for his viewscreen. "I don't know, but it's starting to look very possible." He set a command. "Let's catch some news before that match starts." Slumping into a chair, he folded his hands around his own beer.

A blonde news reader appeared on screen, her hair flouncing as she spoke. "In international news, England is reeling at the news that Irish Republican Army bomber and assassin Michael 'Mikey' Ryan was spotted this morning in London. Ryan, notorious a decade ago for his police station bombings in Belfast and in London, and for the deaths of five British Army officers in Belfast, was rumored to be hiding underground in the United States and organizing IRA fundraising efforts there."

"See?" Trip said. "They must want Malcolm to get the sonovabitch."

The news continued. "It is feared that Ryan may be planning a new series of bombings. This photograph is the last one taken of him before his disappearance approximately nine years ago." The picture flashed on screen.

"Oh, my God." The beer fell from Archer's hand.

Hearing the sound, Trip looked harder at the screen as the picture changed for the next news item. "Holy shit, that ain't possible."

The picture of "Mikey Ryan" had, unquestionably, been that of a ten years younger Malcolm Reed.

* * *

Jonathan Archer checked in at the overelegant modern lobby of the Churchill International, a newish hotel in London favored by military visitors for no discernable reasons other than a willingness of travel agents to funnel them there, a good hotel bar, and large convention facilities. Archer had been a victim of Starfleet's travel bookings. At least there was a pool, if he had time to use it. 

A bellhop took his bags up to his room as he looked around the lobby for tourist information, wondering idly how to locate the IRA. It didn't seem to be the sort of thing one simply went around asking. Not seeing much information, he straightened his uniform and approached the concierge. The young man, in a suit that seemed to be standard issue for the hotel staff, smiled widely as he looked over Archer's rank. "May I help you, Admiral?"

"Yes. I don't know much about London." Archer looked about again as if he were at a total loss. "But I understand there's some good Irish music at some of the places in town. Is there anyplace you could recommend?"

The concierge thought for a moment. "Well, the Rose and Crown isn't very far, and they tend to bring in some top-name people from Dublin. The food's quite good, too. And the King's Arms brings in some international entertainment - though I did think importing an Irish band from Argentina was a bit much recently. They come quite highly recommended in the travel guides."

Archer leaned in towards the man with a conspiratorial air and flashed a bill at him. "I was thinking of something a bit more authentic. I know our Irish pubs in the States aren't quite the same thing... but maybe you could clue me in on where the local Irish go for a good time."

The concierge took the money and deftly pocketed it. "Ah, local color. If you go down Holloway Road or Station Road, there's rather a series of pubs you might enjoy. Mostly local Irish lads performing, but they do a good job. And you'll find the beer's better at those places, too." He winked. "Not to mention a bit cheaper. They're mostly in North London. Any cabbie can steer you there."

Archer nodded his thanks. He decided to head out the following night; right now he wanted nothing so much as a shower, rest, and dinner in his room. He could spend the next day in a library, scouting out the Irish locations around the city, before he took to foot around the pubs. Somehow, knowing how at home Reed was at O'Donoghue's, it seemed likely that he - or Mikey Ryan -- might have found himself a watering hole.

* * *

The cabdriver had dropped him off at a well-lit corner, and had given very precise directions on the best way for Archer to get himself back to his hotel in one piece. Archer had made mental notes and had no plans to disobey the tips given in the information. 

His own digging earlier in the day - amazing what a trip to the library could accomplish, along with a search of some old media files - had suggested that the areas up in North London were where a fair number of Irish were living. There were some working-class neighborhoods mixed into the areas there, which made sense to Archer; surely Mikey Ryan wasn't living in Soho with the better-paid artists and the working rich girls, or in Maida Vale surrounded by stockbrokers and accountants. He'd be someplace where he'd stand out less, someplace among a fair number of other Irish, in a job that didn't draw any attention to him.

The pubs along Holloway Road were lit up for the most part, looking busy and crowded with locals. There were several in these few blocks. What were the chances that Ryan - Reed - would be in one of them that evening? Archer looked around, straightening his civilian sweater, and decided he'd simply begin scouting around. That meant a drink in the first available pub.

He strolled into the Whistle and Sixpence, right beside him, and cautiously worked his way through the crowd to the bar. Some local boys were playing instrumentals; they were, no doubt, quite good, although Archer didn't know the music. Ordering a pint, he settled in for a bit among the crowd. Malcolm wasn't part of it. Asking around for Mikey Ryan sounded like a very bad idea. And although the information he'd found about the area suggested that one or more IRA cells were in the neighborhoods around him, he didn't think it was a better idea to ask where the local meeting was. No; eyes and ears open, mouth shut, sounded like the protocol for surviving this mission.

He tried to look inconspicuous as he eavesdropped shamelessly on anything he could hear. Sports wagers, a few dates, complaints about the tax rates. Nothing unusual in those. Political griping - that was more promising. An unpopular MP, a debate on the need for the House of Lords; nothing unexpected. A small argument that mentioned Belfast? That was better.

"... and the owner of Keegan's is from Belfast, too. Nothing but trouble over there, I tell you. Those old IRA boys there, they could get a man killed. Damn near did, too, years ago. The police used to watch there regular-like when Mikey Ryan went there."

"Ryan? And didn't I hear he's back among us?"

"So the news said, but I hope not. There's trouble we don't need, Darren. Just stay away from Keegan's; you hear me, lad?"

Keegan's Pub? Archer could find that. He finished his pint and slowly made his way back out to the street, looking again at the activity. Several young couples were out strolling around the neighborhood. Boys too young to drink were on the sidewalk, gathered by steps and stoops, drinking sodas and chatting up the girls passing by. Older men, popping in from pub to pub, checking on friends; a few women, bags in hand, back from shopping somewhere else and making their way home now, a bit on the late side.

He found Keegan's about three blocks further down, in what had become a less commercial part of the area. Unlike the pubs that were clustered together, Keegan's was darker, and seemed quieter from the outside. It was far less crowded, closer to half empty, and from what Archer could make out through the window, most of the crowd seemed packed at one end, around a couple of musicians who were hardly on stage putting on a show, but who rather appeared to be playing within the cluster itself, as if they were at a private party. Maybe it *was* a private party.

Archer strolled in, finding that there was no need to push his way up to the bar. Two older men were sitting alone on stools there, and two couples were at tables near the bar. A middle-aged man, tired-looking and wan, sat alone at another table with a book in one hand, an ale in the other. Archer ordered a beer and looked down towards the crowd. A waitress was returning to the bar with a tray full of glasses and mugs as the barkeep wiped his way down the bar with a damp rag, making his way towards Archer. "What'll it be, guv?"

"A pint of Newcastle Brown, if you have it."

"We do indeed, sir. You're not from around here, I take it."

"Visiting from the States." The two other barstool warmers looked towards him curiously but unobtrusively; the man at the table lifted his head from his novel for a peek at the new arrival.

The barkeep shoved a pint glass down well-polished oak towards Archer. "There you be. And that'll be on the house, guv, since you're a visitor."

"Thanks very much." Archer raised the glass to the barkeep and took a large sip. The ale went down like the memory of his first goal for Stanford, and was every bit as comforting. Then, realizing his obvious duty, he flagged the man behind the bar. "I gather that's a private party down there, but how about a round for everyone over on this side?" There were few enough there; the bill wouldn't hurt.

"Thanks, guv; you're a right gentleman." One of the men at the bar raised a glass to Archer. "And your very good health. Having a good visit?"

"Just got here, but I intend to."

"Ah." The other man slipped back into an easy silence, meditating on his current pint. Archer turned around, trying to catch what was happening on the other side of the building. The musicians were playing an instrumental, something Archer knew he had heard before, but he had no idea what the name of it was - some kind of Irish folk tune.

"They're very good," he commented idly.

"Aye." That from the second of the other men at the bar. "Local boys, all. They've a bit of an Irish band of sorts. That's a homecoming party they're playing for."

"A homecoming?"

The man nodded slowly. "Aye. An Irish boy who lived around here. Went over to the States. He's home now; that'd be his friends celebrating with him." A moment's silence while beer lubricated his throat. "The boys playing are cousins of one of his friends." 

Archer nodded. "Seems to be going pretty well down there."

"Aye, but stay away from that crew. They're nothing but trouble."

Another nod, and Archer silently contemplated the scene across the way. The musicians were back to vocals, and the crowd was singing along. The words were a bit different, but he knew the song from a few evenings with Reed at O'Donoghue's.

"I'll tell me ma when I go home, the boys won't leave the girls alone.  
They pulled me hair and stole me comb, but that's all right 'till I go home.  
She is handsome, she is pretty, she's the belle of Belfast city.  
She is a courtin' one two three -- pray won't you tell me, who is she?"

It was all familiar - the songs, the drinks, the sound of the voices. The only thing missing - if indeed he was missing - was Malcolm Reed. Archer couldn't see through the cluster of people, couldn't tell if the man the news called "Mikey Ryan" was anywhere in it.

The song ended, and the musicians sat down. A voice cut through the crowd, a light Irish brogue. "Thank you, thank you all. I'm in shock, all of you comin' out here for me. I'd 've thought you'd as soon have forgotten me as not."

"Forget *you*, Mikey Ryan? And who do you think we are?"

"You, Wynn? I think you're a bloody old sot and I always have - but you knew that."

Another, thicker Irish voice called out. "Mikey's back, all right." There were several small chuckles around the crowd. Archer craned his neck, trying to see the man being addressed as Mikey. Reed had a facility with accents; the voice didn't quite sound like his lover's, but it could have been. He couldn't tell at the moment without going over and crashing the party.

"Hey, Mikey, a song." Several other voices agreed with the demand. Archer couldn't make out the features of the man who was moving over by the musicians.

A few other people came into the pub. Three of them took a table in the back; two others, a man and a woman, both wormed their way through empty tables to the edge of the crowd. The man stood; the woman shrugged off her jacket and head scarf, revealing lank strawberry blonde hair, and sat down at an empty table. The waitress headed over to them.

"Since you're all so kind as to ask, I'll be kind enough to assault your ears now," Ryan told his friends. "And of course, it's my choice of song, so I'll sing what I please, but I think you'll all want to be joinin' me on it. If you sing loud enough, you'll not have to listen to my warbling."

He leaned down to the guitarist and muttered something. The music started, and Ryan began.

"I am a merry ploughboy, and I ploughed the fields all day  
'Till a sudden thought came to my mind that I should roam away.  
For I'm sick and tired of slavery since the day that I was born  
So I'm off to join the IRA, and I'm off tomorrow morn."

The crowd joined in loudly.

"And we're off to Dublin in the green, in the green,  
Where the helmets glisten in the sun --  
Where the bayonets flash and the rifles crash  
To the echo of the Thompson gun."

Archer shook his head. If Ryan was Reed - he'd seen Reed's dismay at the IRA songs back at O'Donoghue's. The thought that the man singing might be his lover chilled him; this was more real than the newscast he and trip had caught, more real than a news article and photograph reviewed on a monitor. He was in the room with this man, was only a few yards away from the man who might be Malcolm Reed. He had to get a look, had to hear the man better - he needed certainty.

Another song struck up, Ryan leading it again.

"What did I have, said the fine old woman  
What did I have, this proud old woman did say.  
I had four green fields; each one was a jewel,  
But strangers came and tried to take them from me.  
I had fine strong sons, who fought to save my jewels.  
They fought and they died, and that was my grief, said she."

The allegory wasn't lost on the crowd, nor on Archer, little though he understood of the Irish conflict. The crowd loved it, Ryan pandering to the sentiment. This wasn't someone who was singing folk tunes without thinking about the words, as the crowd at O'Donoghue's often did. This man was singing songs that would have made the Malcolm Reed he knew violently ill.

The man who had stood at the back of the cluster waved now, and shouted. "She's here, Mikey - we've brought her." The strawberry blonde stood. Archer couldn't get a good look at her, couldn't see her face, but she was clearly tired, clearly weary. The top of Ryan's hard jutted up, as the man tried to see the woman in question. "It's Rose, Mikey."

"Rose MacNab." Ryan's voice was soft now. "Get yourself up here, woman." The woman pushed her way through the crowd, went up to meet Ryan. There was laughing and a bit of clapping now; Archer couldn't see, but he could imagine - Ryan would be holding her, kissing her. Archer saw the tableau in his mind with Reed's face on the man, and he choked.

"It'll be another song, Callum," Ryan called to the musicians. "I shouldn't need to tell you." The guitar picked up again, and again Archer choked on his beer. He'd heard the music before, just once, the day he and Malcolm had come back to San Francisco.

"The sun, it shone just like a jewel on the lovely hills of Clare  
When I won the heart of my sweet girl one evening at the fair.  
Her eyes, they shone like silver streams on her locks of golden hair  
When I won the heart of my true love, my lovely rose of Clare."

The crowd sang along, and Archer's stomach sank.

He'd heard Reed singing that song at O'Donoghue's, and that was, without a doubt, Malcolm Reed singing the same verse now.

"Oh my lovely rose of Clare, you're the sweetest girl I know;  
You're the queen of all the roses, like the pretty flowers that grow.  
You are the sunshine of my life, so beautiful and fair,  
And I will always love you, my lovely rose of Clare."

Archer's mouth was dry, his palms damp. Clearly, he must have found Reed - but what, or whom, had he expected to find when he caught up with his lover? Whatever he'd expected, even hearing what the press had said about Mikey Ryan, he hadn't envisioned a man leading a group of IRA sympathizers in choruses of rebellion songs, certainly hadn't pictured a man who was singing a love song to a woman there with him.

What had Reed said at O'Donoghue's? "'But that was in another country...'". England was another country, to be sure. This wench, however, was far from dead - she was with Ryan, probably still with one arm around her as he was singing. Sick to his stomach, Archer slid off the stool and headed into the men's room of the pub.

He had just finished washing his face with cold water when he heard someone else entering the lavatory. Looking up into the mirror over the basin, he saw Malcolm Reed's face staring over his bent shoulder. "Malcolm."

"The name's Ryan. Michael Ryan, but everyone calls me Mikey." The voice held a light brogue, clearer than when he was singing. The tone was neutral, no inflection, as if he'd never met Archer before.

"Malcolm!" Archer stood up as he dried his face.

"The name's Ryan, Jon." Hearing his own name shook Archer. He'd had no doubt that the other man was Malcolm, but the confirmation was still jarring. Trying to associate Malcolm Reed, English starship officer, with this Irishman in a heavy knit pullover and blue jeans clearly worn from hard work was nearly impossible, even though he knew they were the same man. "And it's as much as any number of lives are worth that you don't forget it."

"Sorry. What are you doing here?"

"I might ask the same of you." The brogue hadn't slipped. Archer had seen Malcolm keep accents in alien dialects while undercover on away missions for days at a time; no surprise that the voice wouldn't crack here.

"Looking for you."

"There's too much going on to explain. Not here, anyway. Where's your hotel?"

"The Churchill."

"Tomorrow night, midnight. I'll find your room." Reed slipped out of the bathroom and headed back to the crowd. Archer shook his head in wonder.

As he pulled himself together and prepared to leave, the door opened again. The new visitor was the man who had been reading at a table. 

The local strolled up to the next sink to wash his hands. "That fellow who just left here - d'ye know him?"

"I thought I did." Ironic, that the statement was so true. Apparently he'd never known Malcolm Reed at all.

"Well, I'd hope you were mistaken." The older man reached for a towel and dried his hands.

"What business is it of yours?" Archer was irritated.

"That man - Mikey Ryan - he's a dangerous lot. I'd hope you're planning to keep your distance."

"I asked you what business it was of yours," Archer repeated, irked.

A hand went into a pants pocket and withdrew a photo identification card. "Gerald Housman, CID. I've been spending a bit of time following our Mr. Ryan. He's not a man I'd expect an American tourist would have business knowing."

Archer backed down. There was no point in fighting the Metropolitan Police. "I did think he was someone else that I knew in the States."

The CID man looked over Archer. "You're a military man?"

"Starfleet."

The Englishman nodded in recognition. "Ah. Well, welcome to London. I don't know what brought you here, but do be careful of who you meet up with. I'm sure you've heard there's been a bit of trouble in these parts. Bombings and such. As I said, Mr. Ryan's a dangerous man. I hate to spoil your night, but that crowd's nothing but trouble, and we may be making an arrest or two later this evening. There are a number of safer places for a man to do a pub crawl than here. I'd recommend the Cock and Bull over a block if you want to check out a local place that's a bit less worrisome. And their kitchen's still open if you'd like a bite."

Archer nodded agreeably and smiled. "Well, thanks. It's a bit late for me, actually, so I'll probably head back. But I may check them out another night. Thanks for the warning, Detective."

"Sergeant, actually. No problem, sir. I just hate seeing a visitor get caught up in a mess by accident. Happens occasionally, so when I've a chance to prevent it, it's my duty, you see."

"I do indeed. Thanks." Archer left the lavatory feeling no better than when he'd entered.

* * *

London was supposed to be a prime tourist attraction. When Archer had been there before, certainly, that had held true. He'd done the usual tourist events, seen the usual sights, which apparently hadn't changed in centuries. This day, there had been plenty of time to see museums he had missed previously, or to wander over to Portobello Road, still the best place on earth to find antiques and curiosities. He would have loved to be able to go there with Reed, who probably knew a thing or two about finding bargains among the dealers and peddlers. However, he'd wound up doing next to nothing, his stomach in knots as he wondered about his lover.

It was a toss-up as to what was most perplexing, as to what was most frightening. Was Malcolm Reed, Starfleet officer and Archer's lover, Mikey Ryan the IRA bomber, or was Ryan in fact Reed? Nothing fit with the man he thought he'd known. And that woman, Rose - everyone at the pub had expected to see her with him, had been cheering at their being together again; who was she? Was she, to Ryan, what Archer was to Reed? He couldn't hold the concept of Reed and Ryan being the same man in his mind; they were so unlike, linked only by his having seen them both in Irish pubs and by their apparent joint fondness for explosives. His mind and his stomach both rebelled at the thought that the two men could be identical.

The best he could do was to work off his nerves in the hotel's pool. Funny that Malcolm Reed's family was naval, but he'd chosen Starfleet, so he'd claimed, out of his fear of drowning as much as out of his rebellion against his father - or so he'd said to Archer - while Archer had followed his father's dream into Starfleet, much as he had always loved the water. Whether anything Reed had told him abut his joining Starfleet was true, though, he found himself questioning. For all Archer knew, Admiral O'Malley had given a friend in the IRA a place to hide as far away from the British authorities as possible - you couldn't get much further away from Belfast or London than deep space.

He shook himself dry and headed to coax the remaining agitation out of himself in the steam room. By the time he'd allowed himself to be steamed into something akin to relaxation, it was time to haul himself back to his room to order dinner. Room service seemed easier to handle than a restaurant; he doubted he could handle the interaction with other humans at the moment.

After dinner, he tried watching more news on the room's viewscreen. Three men had been picked up in the middle of the night on various charges after leaving a pub along Holloway Road. All of them looked Irish enough; one he recognized as the guitar player from the night before. None of them were Mikey Ryan. Apparently Housman had meant what he'd said.

Archer sat heavily on the edge of the bed, exhausted. Too much exercise, too much food, too much news, too many nerves; he needed a nap before Reed - Ryan - showed up. He lay down, figuring on a pointless attempt at rest.

The effort turned out not to be as pointless as he'd feared. He opened his eyes some time later realizing that he'd definitely slept. And that the viewer had been turned off, the lights in the room dimmed.

And that Malcolm Reed, in worn jeans and a pea jacket, hands jammed in his pockets, was sitting in the armchair in the corner, watching him.

"How'd you - no, I'm not going to ask." Archer looked at a chronometer on the nightstand. "You're early."

"I didn't think you'd mind." The brogue of the night before was gone. "Besides, I wanted a chance to search the room for bugs." Archer eyed Reed, suddenly wary at the comment. "Oh, don't worry, I didn't find anything. I didn't think you'd have agreed to anyone using you as bait to get to me, but I was a bit concerned that they might have decided to try it without letting you know."

Archer sat up, facing Reed. "Malcolm, what's going on?"

Reed shook his head. "Jon, please. Mikey Ryan. I'd like not to get killed, I don't need anyone doubting who I am."

"Sorry. I just can't think of you as - what the hell is all of this?"

Reed stood up, shrugging off the jacket. He had what looked to be a handknit Aran sweater pulled over the jeans. It was old, slightly worn, but well-made. The jacket was folded over the back of the armchair. Even with these clothes rather than his uniforms, Reed's care was evident. "We've never discussed what I did before Starfleet." He paused. "There are a few things I rather hoped you'd never have to find out."

Archer bit his lip. "You didn't even leave me a note when you left. I thought you'd run out on me. Then I heard about Ryan on the news, and when I saw the screen, there was a picture of you. I - we - hacked your computer and read the letters. The ones we could decode, anyway. I - I needed to find out."

Reed moved to the window and peered outside. "This wasn't my idea, Jon. I didn't want to leave. Let's just say - I can't go into this, I wish I could but I can't - there were some threats."

"They were going to kill you?"

His lover turned from the window to face Archer on the bed. "You know I've never cared particularly about what happens to me. That wouldn't have meant much. Jon, please, I can't tell you more than that right now. Trust me on that. I wouldn't have left on my own. They came and picked me up, and if I hadn't gone with them - well, never mind."

Archer rose to meet Reed. "I *do* mind." He reached out, intending to take Reed's hands, only to find Reed against him, wrapping his own arms around Archer's back, pressing his head against Archer's neck. "I love you, damn it."

"I love you, too." Reed whispered it against Archer's throat.

And then it didn't matter; nothing mattered, only Reed's lips against his, and how quickly he could get Reed's sweater off, and Reed's hands tugging at his sweatshirt. It hadn't been that way since before they'd docked again at Jupiter Station after five years in space, hadn't been that way since the last time he'd been sure Reed was putting himself in danger of being killed.

They lay tangled in the sheets afterwards, Reed pillowed against Archer as if nothing were in the least unusual. Finally, Archer broke the silence. "Can you stay?"

"I wish I could, love, but I'll have to get back. I don't need too many questions about where I've been or what I'm doing. There's more than enough of those already."

"Is this ever going to be over? Are you going to be coming back, or are you stuck with this?"

"God." Reed shivered against him. "Perish the thought. I have one job they want me to do, so they say, and I plan to wash my hands of all this when it's done. All I want is to get back home."

The thought cheered Archer inordinately. Then another thought came to him, one he'd had earlier in the day.

"Please tell me one thing."

"If I can."

"Who's Rose MacNab? I saw you with her last night."

Reed froze. "You don't want to know, Jon."

"If you say that, then I think I really *do* want to know. Who is she?"

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Who the fuck is she?" Archer sat up.

"She's my wife."

Archer reached over and switched on the light. "Your *wife*?" The insults to his stomach from annoyance and distress had been entirely justified, hadn't they? What the hell was Malcolm Reed doing being married already? That hadn't been in the personnel records, and Reed had never even suggested the possibility once in their relationship. And it wasn't as if they hadn't had the opportunity for the subject to be introduced, was it? He suppressed a faint urge to vomit at the news.

Reed propped himself up against the pillows. "Mikey Ryan's been married to Rose MacNab for eleven years. I don't suppose you want to hear about Padraig?"

"Who?" His head was spinning now. Perhaps this wasn't real; perhaps it was all a hallucination caused by some virus spreading around the city, or food poisoning from the previous day's porkpie. There wasn't much else to explain it, was there?

"My son. He's nine years old; coming back here is the first I've ever seen him. Rose was pregnant when I came to the States." Reed threw the sheets back over the bed and stood up. "And on that note, I think I'd better go before you tell me to get out of here." He stepped into the bathroom; Archer could hear the water running. 

Reed emerged a few minutes later, a towel around his hips, heading for the clothing they'd strewn towards the chair. Archer looked over at his lover, Reed's body illuminated faintly by the reading lamp nearby.

"You could have told me." Damn; that hadn't been how he wanted to sound. The line was weak, used a thousand times if once, by every betrayed lover Archer could contemplate. His voice had come out wrong as well; it should have been deep, with a vaguely wounded inflection suggesting nobility of character and willingness to suffer, rather than the dry-mouthed near-squeak that had emerged instead.

"No," Reed answered softly. "I couldn't." He paused as the sweater went over his head. "I said there were threats. Let's just say there's more than one kind of threat out there."

"I don't understand."

"And I can't explain. Not yet, anyway." Reed finished dressing. "It's too bloody dangerous." He sat on the edge of the bed, looking over at Archer. "You shouldn't have come after me, Jon."

Archer couldn't think of a response. "I didn't know what to do," he said simply. "I had to find you."

Reed leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "You did. And by the time it's all over, you'll wish to hell you hadn't." The pea jacket was in his hand.

"You're going back to her?" Archer asked. Shit, the wrong words again. A starship officer didn't whine, didn't plead, didn't sound for all the world as if he was begging his lover not to leave him. 

"I'm going home to a third-floor walk-up in Hammersmith with a wife I've not seen in ten years who's wondering where the bloody hell I went after dinner, and a son who doesn't know me," Reed sighed. "The charming life of an Irish patriot back in London from the Irish-American underground." He looked at Archer, hard in the eye. "I want you to take a couple of days, Jon. Just to think about things. You've every right to hate my guts and every right to throw me out on the doorstep when this is all over, now you've found this out. I don't even know why you shouldn't. Don't come looking for me. I'll find you." Another kiss as he pulled on the jacket. "And despite how all of this looks and sounds... I do love you."

"I love you, too," Archer whispered back. God help him, he did.

He turned his head, unable to watch Reed leave. It was only several minutes after the door shut, and he'd tried to will away the pounding in his head, that the irony of his own thinking occurred to him.

If anyone on earth had a right to claim that Malcolm Reed had betrayed them, it had to be Rose MacNab Ryan, didn't it? She was the one Reed had married, long before he'd ever heard of or met Jonathan Archer. No wonder Reed had refused to marry him when he'd asked.

He curled up on his side, staring blankly at a spot of light on the wall that shone through the hotel room's curtain.

* * *

Archer forced himself out of bed the next morning and dragged himself to the Churchill's restaurant for breakfast. On the way back to his room, cutting through the lobby, he was surprised to see a familiar face. "Sergeant Housman."

"Admiral Archer." The CID man rose from a winged armchair in the corner. 

"You know who I am?"

"I do now." Housman steered Archer over to the corner where he had been sitting. "I thought you said you didn't know Michael Ryan. We followed him here last night. He seems to have been in your room an awfully long time for a man you don't know."

"Sergeant, I - "

"Look, Admiral," Housman interrupted. "I'm not asking you about your personal business. I'm telling you the way things are. Keep away from Ryan. I can't guarantee your safety if you don't."

Archer shifted his weight. "If you know who I am, Sergeant, you know I've been I more dangerous situations than anything on this planet offers. I don't need anyone to guarantee my safety."

"Perhaps not, Admiral. But I won't have you obstructing justice or interfering with an investigation, either. Listen to me, man. Stay away from Ryan. The arrests the other night weren't the end of this." Housman took Archer's forearm. "Don't let yourself get dragged into what's happening here. This is our business, not yours. Surely Ryan's told you to stay clear!"

"How the hell would you know that?" Archer stared Housman down.

"He's always had a bit of a soft spot for the innocent bystanders, Mikey has," Housman said placidly. It could have been true, or Housman simply might have covered well. Archer wasn't sure. Did Housman know Ryan? Had they met? Was Housman even CID? Archer's head swam. "You wouldn't be the first he's warned off. We know his boys are up to something, Admiral. And if they are, and if he's back, then he's up to something. I'm not going to ask you if you know anything about it. I'll credit you that you don't. But if Ryan's told you to stay clear, take the warning. That's all I'll say to you. If you don't, Admiral, as I say, I'll promise you nothing." Housman dropped his hand from Archer' sleeve. "Good day to you, Admiral. And... think about what I've told you, hmm?" The detective walked off after a parting glance. Morosely, Archer continued his journey to the hotel's restaurant, his mind now occupied with a great deal more than how many rashers of bacon he needed on the side of his eggs and toast.

* * *

The message download was nearly jovial, though perhaps a shade sarcastic. "You owe me," Tucker told Archer in no uncertain terms. "You're the one who insulted me for dating a gal in the data collection unit," he snorted. "So Connie's type's not good enough for me till ya need a piece of work done, huh?" Tucker grinned. "I found the stuff ya asked about. There's a marriage license for a Michael Colum Ryan and a Rose MacNab about eleven years ago in Belfast. Rose has an address in London, in Hammersmith, and a cosmetology license. She owns a salon in Hammersmith called Rose of Tralee, mostly frequented by Irish students and office workers."

Tucker continued with his report. "Ryan's apparently trained as a mechanical engineer; he worked before he left England, and apparently he's back, at a small factory in Hammersmith that's owned by another Irish expatriate. The place makes parts for and assembles engines for English-built shuttles. He's a member of a social club with branches in Hammersmith and West Hackney called the Loyal Knights of Tara. Apparently a pretty fair number of known or suspected IRA members in London belong to one branch or the other. There's some kinda police record indicating that the club's probably an IRA front; they figure that the real meeting place for them is in one or both of the club buildings. Rose belongs to the Hammersmith club, and Ryan has privileges at both clubs.

"Connie hit a couple of brick walls - but they're pretty interesting brick walls, lemme tell ya. First off, she hacked Ryan's police files. All the reported stuff is there. It's pretty gruesome reading; I don't know what it all means, but it sure don't look like Malcolm. Anyway, all of it's there - but there's also a classified section of the file that's so heavily encoded it can't be hacked. Connie's got no clue what's in there. And this detective or whatever, Housman? She tried hacking into his personnel file, and the whole thing's under a double encryption she can't hack. Far as she can tell, there's no way into the damn thing. Could mean nothing, could mean a lotta things. I guess what you make of it's up to you.

"Look, Jon - whatever you do, just be careful. I'm glad to hear ya think ya found Malcolm, but... be careful. These ain't exactly a bunch 'a cranky Suliban, but that don't mean they're not dangerous, y' know it?" The blond figure on the download paused. "So watch yer back, Jon. Take care of yerself. I'll seeya later."

With a heavy sigh, Archer turned off the viewscreen and saved the message.

* * *

MacNamara Technoservices was a small red-brick factory near, not quite on, the water on the north side of the Thames. It seemed, as best Archer could tell, to have a fascinating mix of immigrant workers. The women, mostly Pakistani, were, he gathered, part of a small-motor assembly team for the lower-scale engines. A few suited Irish and North African employees who entered the gates seemed to be computer technology types, though he could easily have been mistaken. The rest, Irish and Pakistani men, seemed to be a collection of more and less skilled assemblers and floor supervisors; a few, slightly better dressed, might have been design or testing technicians. 

From observing the plant, Archer could draw only a few conclusions. It was clear that no one there, not even Fergus MacNamara, was rich. It was readily apparent that a very few of the employees, including, it appeared, Ryan, worked late. And the place shipped out small wooden crates whose contents were completely unidentifiable. A bomb could as easily have been shipped out in one of the crates as a shuttle engine might have.

And Fergus MacNamara's favorite place outside the plant was the Loyal Knights hall a few blocks over from the factory. It was quite odd that a social club had wooden crates dropped off at the rear from an engine production facility and carried to the basement, Archer thought. Odder yet that they were carried there personally by MacNamara in some cases, and other times by a couple of men that Archer was sure he'd recognized from Ryan's party at the pub, all of whom seemed to have keys to the hall's basement entrance.

It was all quite odd enough that it merited an investigation, in Jonathan Archer's book. 

Night, undoubtedly, would be the best time to do it. He shoved his hands in his pockets, glanced about to make sure that his new friend Sergeant Housman was some other place on the face of the earth, and strode off, hoping that no notice had been given to him. Perhaps the next night would be a reasonable time to take care of satisfying his curiosity.

* * *

One more worker in a worn jacket and workpants was hardly noticed in the dark; no one questioned the newest silent man with a grimy face who was helping to off-load crates at the warehouse, as the darkness settled around them.

"What's this for, then?" another worker, shouldering a small crate, asked.

"Ask MacNamara," a third replied. "Here, take this over to the orange section." Archer accepted his workload quietly, carrying the box through a narrow gangway to an area full of similar boxes. A few boxes were partly open; he could see what looked like regulators, speed control devices of various sorts, peeking through. Nothing suspicious here.

He passed by what was labeled the red section of the warehouse by a few of the other workmen; there, he saw cable and wire of various sorts, still on reels large, small, and enormous. Nothing unexpected in those, though the wire could be used for nearly anything.

It was vaguely possible that nothing illegal was occurring, he thought, as he joined a queue of other casual laborers for tea that had been brought into the area by a mobile canteen. Somehow, however, he doubted it. There had to be bombs, or materials, moving to the Loyal Knights meeting hall. 

He sipped the tea gently, watching the steam rise, enjoying the warmth of the cup in his hands though they had not felt cold before that. It had occurred to him to wonder if he would see Reed there, but most of the operations at MacNamara at this time of evening involved loading and off-loading.

As he finished up and tossed his cup into a trash barrel, a hand landed on his shoulder. His stomach sank - he'd been noticed, of course. They had realized he didn't belong there, might even have thought him to be with the police. Undercover had never been his best suit - how many times had he been spotted at some point on other planets? It was Malcolm, he thought ruefully, who'd always been the clever one with disguise -

"You. Over to the trucks. We've some drop-offs this evening. Go help Seamus and Mick."

That was all. Relief flooded him like a storm in the Vulcan desert. Archer did his best not to look as if he'd been reprieved from a hanging as he headed to the idling vehicles. This was better than he'd expected - perhaps he'd be able to get a look inside the premises at the meeting hall and see if there were indeed explosives there. He followed someone else's direction to climb inside one of the trucks, and squeezed in beside another tired-looking worker in a faded corduroy jacket.

The lighting in the area was weak, but a stash of boxes was not completely sealed. Archer didn't know a tenth of what Malcolm Reed might know about weapons or explosives, but he'd had a vague user's knowledge of some of the items, at the very least. 

That was plastic explosive he saw, he was perfectly sure. If it wasn't, he didn't know what was.

And that was a more than adequate reason to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut. Otherwise, he'd never find out just what was going on, just what kind of threats had been made that were holding Reed to the area. Obviously, they wanted his ordnance expertise. Just as obviously, Reed wanted out; he'd said as much. 

Wife? Son? Archer would deal with those later, somehow. Right now, what he needed was to find out just what Reed had gotten himself into, and what it would take to get him out of it.

The truck drove for what seemed an eternity, hitting every rut, every pothole, imaginable in the old streets of the warehouse area as it bounced its way jarringly to the Loyal Knights of Tara lodge hall. Finally, with a shudder that belied the existence of modern vehicle technology, it ground to an equally tooth-jarring stop. Archer and his companions wormed their way out of the back, as the driver and his partner slammed the doors of the cab. Archer realized that they were indeed two of the men he'd seen with Reed at the pub.

Apparently a party was happening in the front of the building. A band was playing, and someone, a woman with a pleasant if not entirely on-key voice, was singing. Archer had heard the song in O'Donoghue's, with Reed - who had denied vigorously the claim Archer had made that Reed had been sniffling under his breath while Terry O'Farrell had been singing.

"By a lonely prison wall I heard a young girl calling,  
Michael they have taken you away  
For you stole Trevelyn's corn  
So the young might see the morn  
Now a prison ship lies waiting in the bay."

Boxes were thrust from the back of the truck into his arms. He walked them to a back entrance, and down some steps, where they were taken by another man he had seen at the pub - and on the news after the arrests Housman had mentioned.

"Low lie the fields of Athenry,  
Where once we watched the small free bird fly  
Our love was on the wing, we had dreams and songs to sing;  
It's so lonely round the fields of Athenry."

Back up, another load of boxes, and back to the steps.

"By a lonely prison wall I heard a young man calling  
Nothing matters, Mary, when you're free.  
Against the famine and the Crown  
I rebelled, they cut me down;  
Now you must raise our child with dignity."

The area seemed empty enough of people, if not of contents. "The loo," he called roughly to one of the other laborers.

"Right, it's 'round the corner in there. Hurry it up, will you?" Archer nodded and walked into the building.

"By a lonely harbor wall she watched the last star falling  
As that prison ship sailed out against the sky --  
For she'll live in hope and pray  
For her love in Botany Bay.  
It's so lonely round the fields of Athenry."

The lights were dim, but he was able to make out wire and wire cutters, boxes of C-4, and what were all too unmistakably blasting caps. A few cannibalized clockworks lay on a table, as did what appeared to be some inexpensive, low-tech kitchen timers. He smelled something like old gunpowder, whatever was there that caused the slightly sulfuric, slightly oily odor. And - -what was in the barrels? He tried lifting a lid to peer inside, but the lid gave way too easily and clattered to the floor.

"What in bloody hell - " Voices were not only audible, but immediately there, as the driver and someone else he didn't recognize turned on a light and found him there.

"Bloody perlice, that's what. Got yourself a CID type, Mick - maybe even MI5."

"C'mere." Mick grabbed Archer roughly, jerking his arm. "An' don't make trouble if you want to keep yerself alive any longer." Recognizing his disadvantage - and that Housman might even have been right about the situation - Archer cooperated, following in Mick's tow to a room upstairs, in what seemed to be a hotel suite-type of arrangement within the building. 

Another two men came in and sat down, glowering at him. "You two watch him," Mick said. "I'm finding Mikey - he'll know how to deal with this."

So they were deferring to Reed. At least he would see Reed, but what would Reed do? How willing was Reed to expose his own hand, whatever it was? 

What if Reed played their hand? That was almost possible, Archer realized. Would Reed rescue him - would he even be able to? There was a possible "no" this time. Reed had left Archer's bed for a wife and child here in London, ones the IRA had possibly threatened - what chance did Archer have in the midst of all of this?

It seemed an hour before Reed - Ryan - arrived, his hair unkempt, shirt tail out under his sweater. Mick entered the room with him. Reed looked about the room, and at Archer, without a blink. Archer had seen Reed like this before doing undercover - cold, distant, unrecognizing and unrecognizable. He might never have met the man before, for all the reaction Reed gave to him. As Reed tossed his jacket onto a chair, the bulge of a gun under the sweater was unmistakable. "I'll take care of it," Reed told Mick and the others. "You go finish up for the evening. Good work, by the way." He waited until the men had left and the door had shut behind them, then turned on Archer. "What the bloody hell are you doing here? I told you - I absolutely told you - and then, Housman's boys call me that you've gotten your arse into these bloody lunatics' hands! I'm not even half sure how I'm getting you out of this one."

"Housman called you?"

Reed chuckled, still visibly angry. "Housman's my backup, Jon. I'm in CI5. Criminal terrorism investigation and cleanup. I've been working undercover in the IRA since I left college and the CI boys recruited me. Mick's one of us, too. He's a new boy, and he can have it." He went into the next room, a kitchenette, and began running water. "I'm making tea." He re-entered the room a moment later. "Kettle's on. Now, what the bloody fuck are you doing here?"

"I thought," Archer sighed weakly, "I thought..."

"You thought exactly what I've needed these bloody sons of bitches to think - that Mikey Ryan's back from the States and ready to bomb the nearest government building for them." Reed sank into an armchair and ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "Mikey Ryan never existed," he sighed. "He was a baby who was born in Belfast the same year I was born and died at six weeks. When CI5 put me in here, they gave me papers with his identity. Mikey Ryan's never bombed a police station that we hadn't abandoned first. He's never bombed a government building the Ministry didn't pick out and have cleared in advance. Those army boys Mikey supposedly killed in Belfast? Rose killed them. I took the credit because she was pregnant - they couldn't afford to actually have me arrested or prosecuted, so I told them I'd been put up to it to prove my loyalty. She was carrying my son - I may be no kind of father, but I wasn't going to have that happen.

"I walked out on them to join Starfleet, but I owed them. When we got back, CI5 told me they wanted me for another operation here to close up this cell." Reed rose as the kettle began whistling. "Anyway," he called from the kitchen, "when I told them Mikey was dead as far as I was concerned, they threatened you if I didn't cooperate. I've had Housman trying to keep you from getting yourself killed by *both* sides, damn it, and damn if you haven't managed to get both of them on you right now."

He returned carrying a tea tray. "So," Reed said, setting the tray in front of Archer, "where do you want me to pick up from there?"

Archer looked at him, shook his head. "I don't even know where to start." Reed chuckled, leaned over, and poured the tea. "Tell me about Rose."

Reed steadied the teapot, sat it down, and added milk to his tea. "Rose MacNab. A nice girl from Belfast. She's as loyal to the cause as you can get, and she wanted to marry a hero. And there I was, a certified hero of the cause, with bombings to my name. It was love at first sight. And I got cover."

Archer sipped at his tea. "Cover?" 

Reed nodded and picked up his own tea mug. "In a closed group of good Irish Catholic men, being unmarried and not sufficiently partial to women gets to be a little obvious after a while. It didn't help my cover any for anyone to realize I wasn't exactly heterosexual," he shrugged. "And Rose was too star-struck to be demanding. I did what I could by her, but it wouldn't have been enough for anyone else. It wasn't even enough for her, but it was less than otherwise, perhaps. When I decided it was time to get out and I joined Starfleet, she was torn between horror at the thought I was leaving and absolute rapture that her husband was such a defender of the cause that he needed to go into hiding in another country." He paused. "CI5 was quite good about delivering cash payments to her that were supposedly being sent by a devoted husband and father who was trying to keep supporting them. But it kept me obligated to them all this time - so when I got back, they decided they could hold me to one more project. And if I said no... well, you're my weak spot, Jon, and they know it."

"What does Admiral O'Malley have to do with all of this? Admiral Forrest said he was involved."

Reed laughed. "Oh, Madman O'Malley. He came into Starfleet from MI5. Our domestic military intelligence. When CI5 ordered me back, O'Malley arranged to have my records handled. One hand of the Ministry washing another and all that."

It was Archer's turn to laugh. "My God, I thought the IRA plotting was reaching all the way up into Starfleet top brass. I was certain he was part of it."

"Not quite." Reed laughed as well, then rose, carrying his tea, and moved to join Archer on the sofa. He leaned back heavily into the sofa, finally relaxing against Archer's shoulder. "Not quite, love." He set the tea down and leaned against Archer once more, reaching over for Archer's hand. "We've dug ourselves out of far worse than this, though usually with backup that was actually supporting us. I suppose I should put my mind to getting you out of here." 

"Surely we have a minute first," Archer protested, sliding his hand to Reed's thigh, and turning his head to Reed's for a kiss.

"Well, perhaps," Reed acquiesced. Archer bent his head down to meet Reed's lips as Reed's hand snaked into his hair. Surely the discovery that he was making love to a married man should still be bothering him, though it bothered him far more when Reed wasn't there than when he was. It was far too difficult to contemplate the matter when Reed was there, occupying his senses. When Reed was sliding into his arms like this, it was far too difficult to contemplate much of anything. 

It was certainly far too difficult to listen for the door. His first awareness that the door was unlocked or that someone had entered came as a woman's voice shocked him out of a nearly mind-numbing exploration of his lover's mouth. "I suppose that explains it."

Archer broke the clinch with Reed as both of them looked up at Rose. Reed blinked first. "Hullo, Rose."

Whatever Archer had expected of Reed's wife, a resigned sigh accompanied with a weak half-smile wasn't it. "I gather you know him, Mikey?"

Reed shrugged, then nodded. "Rose, this is Jonathan. We were... together... back in the States. He got himself into this, apparently, trying to find me here."

"They're all convinced he's police," she replied, checking the warmth of the teapot, then walking to the kitchenette for another mug.

"I know," Reed told her as she returned. "He's not."

"I'd ask why you hadn't let him go yet, then, but the answer's fairly plain." She poured tea for herself, added a generous spoonful of sugar. "And it's much plainer why we never had much going between us. I spent years, while you were in America, wondering. I thought it was something to do with me. I don't know what to think, but I didn't really expect this. At least it's a relief to know it's not me."

"That was never it," Reed told her quietly. "It was always me."

"So I see." She paused over her tea. "This might not be the best time to discuss it, I know, but I suppose we need to discuss what to do about us. And about Padraig." She paused again, eyeing Reed. "It won't go over well, I can say that much. It's best keeping it quiet, you know."

Reed shook his head, then stood up to pace around the room. Archer kept an eye on both. "I don't think you'll have to worry, Rose. I've been thinking." A pause. "This is a young man's game, and I'm too old for it. This job I'm doing, I'm thinking it'll be my last. And I'm thinking of making it very final. When they look through the rubble," he sighed, "they'll find Mikey Ryan in the rubble, with no way to put his pieces back together."

"What will you do?"

"I'm not sure," he told her. "Probably, I'll go back to the States with Jonathan. Let everyone think I'm dead, love," he told her. "Unless you're too worried about your immortal soul, no one will wonder at it if you get married again. Find yourself someone who can make you happy this time."

"What about Padraig?"

"I don't like to see him in this game at all, but I suppose there's no way out of it at this point. Is it too much for me to ask you to try to keep him out of it? Not that a man who's never seen his son grow up has a right to make suggestions." Reed paused, and looked at Rose anxiously. "He doesn't need to think his father died a hero to the country and try to do the same thing himself, Rose. I'd rather he had a fighting chance at staying alive and not learning to hate everyone around him. I have some money, back in the States. I'm willing to pay. Send him to school out of the country. Not Ireland, not here. Anywhere else. Anything, but get him away from this."

Rose bit her lip. "Mikey, you'll think this is crazy. Padraig... he saved his allowance last year, he bought a telescope. You saw him yourself last night, up out of bed looking at the stars. His best grades, already, they're in his science classes. If we sent him to school in America, do you think... is it too ridiculous... I wonder if he'd ever have a chance at Starfleet."

Archer looked over at his lover, then at his lover's wife. "I... I have a few contacts," he offered vaguely, wondering if he was out of place or not. "If... if you want... I could see that someone checks in on him someday."

"Even the idea of it," Rose mused, shaking her head, "he'd be flabbergasted. We've fought this government for years, Mikey, fought them to be free of them finally. Maybe Padraig could get free of it that way... could just go, get the bloody hell off this whole damned planet and away from here. I know you're planning to disappear again, I understand why, I think... but you *are* his father, Mikey Ryan - would you let him do that? It's a father's right to help make that kind of decision."

Reed was leaning on the windowsill, looking out the window. Archer couldn't see his face, but he suspected that he didn't need to. "I'll give you an address, Rose. Wait three weeks after the job, then contact me there. Find a school for him, find out how much money you'll need. If he *wants* to be in Starfleet, he'll be there. I promise you that. But don't - whatever you do, don't force the boy to do it. I won't make a decision like that for him, and neither will you, if you really care about him."

He turned away from the window and back to face her. "Rose, have Seamus tell MacNamara's crew I'm moving the job to Tuesday. I want everything here by Friday night. They can do it if they push a bit."

"Are you coming home tonight?"

"Do you want me to?"

"It's your home, Mikey. Padraig's your son. I can tell you to sleep on the sofa, but I can't tell you not to come home."

A long pause. "I'll be there, Rose. For him, if for neither of us. He deserves to see his father long enough to remember him." Reed leaned heavily against a table. 

Rose broke the new silence. "If your, er, friend... just walks out... he may not be the police, but we'd have to explain who he is. That won't help you. You're best off, both of you, if everyone thinks," she said to Archer, "that you're someone we can't trust."

"What do you suggest?" Reed asked her.

She eased herself out of her seat, then walked back into the kitchen area. She returned holding a coil of thin rope, and untying the scarf from her blouse. "Mikey, you leave now. I told you I'd take care of things up here while you got back to work down below. You, er, Jonathan - you might tie me up a bit, rather carefully - I'll tell you how to do it - and then tie this about my mouth. Someone would come by at some point anyway, in a couple of hours; and it'll just be a shame how you overpowered me and tied me up so you could escape."

Reed looked back at her admiringly. "I did marry you for a reason, I remember."

"You just liked the way I threw a grenade," she laughed sadly. "Get out of here." As Reed exited, she turned to Archer. "I hope you're tough enough for him. He always liked that about me. Now, I'm going to put my hands behind my back. Were you ever a Scout? I hope I don't need to teach you knots."

 

* * *

The papers had been full of the news of the station blast. It was fortunate, one supposed, that the station had been empty at the time the IRA had bombed it. There was only one casualty, the bomber himself, Mikey Ryan. Ryan had been spotted in the area, had called the press himself to announce that a bomb had been planted in a public building, clothing he had worn was scattered in fragments in the blast. There was no need to try to do an identification of the fragments of body found at the scene, no way to know that the body there had been an unidentified corpse that had vanished from the morgue inexplicably. The media was relieved that the menace of Mikey Ryan had finally been obliterated; the IRA was issuing statements praising a great hero of the resistance to British occupation and lamenting his glorious death while destroying a major industrial tool of the oppressor. The unfortunate arrest of over a dozen of Ryan's associates a few days later was only a minor setback to the cause, according to the IRA, although the papers insisted that a major IRA cell had been utterly demolished.

Jonathan Archer was listening to the news recap of all of this on the shuttle back to San Francisco; his lover was slumped back tiredly in his own seat, beside him, nursing a cup of coffee and staring out the window quietly.

Archer turned to Reed. "Do you think you'll see him?"

"Who?"

"Padraig."

"I didn't see enough of him when I was supposedly alive - it's a bit late now I'm dead, as it were. It's bad enough already; it's not my right to give him a complex on top of it. And he's better off, I suppose, with the fantasy I'm a hero of some kind."

"You are. The *real* Malcolm Reed is."

"The real Malcolm Reed is a British government agent who went into Starfleet after fighting everything Padraig was raised to believe. That's not a hero to him, no matter what I've done in Starfleet. Let him read about me in school - hopefully with a bad illustration or none at all so he won't notice how much I look like his father."

"And if he meets you in Starfleet?"

"If I'm an Earthbound desk jockey by the time he gets in, he can look at the old man and think I might look a bit like his father might have. That's enough for him, Jon. And it's enough for me. I wasn't raised by the best parents, and I was never one to him. The least I can do, and the best, is leave him alone now that he thinks he knows who his family is."

"What about Rose?"

Reed shrugged. "I'm no better a husband than a father, I'm afraid. Surely you saw that. I'm dead, the IRA's treating her like a hero's widow, and she'll meet someone who can give her a much better future than I did a past."

"Are you filing for divorce?"

"I don't see how," Reed sighed. "I may be alive, but the man on her marriage license is dead - and he wasn't even alive to marry her in the first place, when you get down to it. "I don't even know that it was legal - but there's no way she knows that, and no way I can admit it. She knows I'm alive, but the law says I'm dead - let her do what she wants and take her conscience to the priest."

"That's a little cold, isn't it?"

"It's what she did when she killed five Army officers. She let me take the credit, and she went to the priest. Of course he was a sympathizer, so she got full absolution that time," Reed said bitterly. "She's a lovely woman, is Rose, but she's no more a saint than I am. It's up to her what she does now, and I wish her luck, but there's no more I can do."

"She's killed five military men and you're letting it go?"

Malcolm shrugged. "That was ten years ago, Jon. She's been in London raising a child by herself for nine. She may still believe in the cause, but she hasn't had the time or ability to do more than cheerlead for it for a long time. Is it my job to put my own son's mother in jail when there's no one else who *can* take care of him?" He played with his own very empty cup.

The concept was unnerving. "Killing is killing, Malcolm. Shouldn't it be punished?"

Another shrug. "You're asking the wrong man," Reed sighed weakly. "How many people - human or otherwise - have I killed in five years on Enterprise?"

"That's different."

"Why?" Reed argued. "Because it was my *job*? Who decides who's right? I've always done what I've had to on board. That's what a soldier's job is. But the other side thinks they're right, too. How often have we stuck ourselves in a situation on another planet because we thought that someone needed our help? Lord knows some alien looking at us might think Rose was justified. I've worked the other side because it's my job... they do theirs because they really believe they've been oppressed. It's never been my job to decide who's right in the matter - and how do I really know Rose isn't right? Maybe I'll never know. I've done my work, and I have to believe I'm right, but what proves it besides a history we'll never read?"

There was a long silence between them as Archer contemplated what Reed had said. He wanted to believe that Reed was wrong - surely they had done the right thing on Enterprise? But he could recall his own mistakes as a commander, mistakes that had certainly cost lives Reed had taken.

There had to be a difference between one side and the other; there had to be a right side and a wrong one, or at least one side that was more correct or less wrong. Didn't there? He was no philosopher; he couldn't answer the question. Reed seemed to be able to live with the question. He wondered if he would be able to live with it now that Reed had presented it to him.

He couldn't agree with Reed, but he had no solution. Though it seemed no better to him that Rose should go to jail, that Padraig should have no parent at all, than it did to Reed, it was impossible to believe that absolution cleansed all sins or that the kind of killing she had done could be right. Was agreement to disagree enough for them? Could it be?

It occurred to him that he had no clue how Reed felt about Rose's religion. Perhaps Reed even agreed with her - but, if so, surely he would have chosen to seek absolution for the lives he had taken in his own work. Or would he? 

Maybe he didn't really know Malcolm Reed at all. Perhaps he never would.

He could live with the ambiguity, he supposed, if this was what Reed wanted. At least he thought he could. It would feel better if he could have certainty about something, but Reed was leaving him with none.

Archer took a deep breath. "What about us, Malcolm?"

Reed turned away from the window, examining Archer's face over cooling coffee. "What about us? We're still here, I presume, unless finding out the truth about me's a bit too painful for you. I was hoping to spare you all of this, and instead you got the full blast."

"I'm not leaving, Malcolm." Another pause. "Not unless... you'd rather I did."

His lover shook his head. "No, no... never that, Jon. I... I do love you. But... you see why I wouldn't marry you, now, I suppose. I already was. Maybe I still am - I don't even know."

Archer swallowed. "I do see. I - well, I promise I won't push you about it. I don't know how to sort out the situation, but I follow."

Reed set his cup down on the seat tray. "Give me time, Jon. I wish I could promise you something, but I can't promise you anything, now that you know. The IRA thinks I'm dead, CI5 knows I can't be, but they have to say I am because they know I faked them out... all I can promise you is that I'll be off leave from Starfleet by the end of the week -- and that I *do* love you."

Archer searched his lover's features, wondering if he would ever find a sign in them. Malcolm Reed had never been an easy man to read, even at the best of times. "If it's all you can give me now, I'll settle for it. I'd rather have that than nothing."

"But you'd rather have everything."

"Wouldn't we all?"

"I was raised not to expect it. I don't know." Reed leaned back in his seat, sighing. "Do you mind killing that news you have on? The rumors of my death, as they say, are greatly exaggerated."

"Of course." Archer turned off the monitor and leaned back in his own seat. Nothing had been settled between them, and yet much had been. It was like exploring the galaxy, he thought - the more he learned about his lover, the more he realized he would never know, never be able to understand. He'd been told that there were certain questions in physics that seemed to allow of no solution. Even more disquieting to find out that one lived with such questions around them. But at least Reed was still willing to be with him.

He adjusted the pillow behind his neck in hopes of sleep, then winced.

Reed was staring out the window, humming under his breath, but not silently enough to ignore.

It was going to be impossible to nap, he realized, at least it would be until Reed stopped humming to himself. Just as Reed hadn't wanted to sing the damned thing that night at O'Donoghue's, Archer realized, he never wanted to hear the sound of "Rose of Clare" again.


End file.
